contact / help

Whiskey mixed in my glass of coke
Six songs in and I start to choke
Another four and I’m on the floor
Before I get paid I’m shown the door

Quaaludes or cocaine
Quaaludes or cocaine

Doctor please I can not recall
What I dropped in my alcohol
My baby left me broken and blue
I can’t afford the bill that is due

Quaaludes or cocaine
Quaaludes or cocaine

Track Name: (Miller) Lite Me The Fuck Up

Light me the fuck up
All my friends turned yup
Treat me like a fool
Broke as fuck from school

You want it
I got it
And it's burning a hole in my pocket
But fuck it
I’ll just keep it
Everyone in this town knows that I’m still the shit

I hate my hometown
Might as well just drown
Twelve pack every night
Passed out drunk mid-fight

You got it
Well I want it
Leave you covered in blood and your vomit
But fuck it
You just keep it
All the dope you can find in this town is still shit

Track Name: Prairie Squat

Norman High is a two story squat
Where roaches feast and the drywall rots
Hi-C and ramen in a Taquis bag
Cold and numb under Goodwill rags

We’re not OK
Streets unpaved
Stocks are high
Wells are dry
School’s are closed
Decomposed
The children are our future and the futures in the gutter cause
We never get a cut because the working man is second to the Klan

Mr. G slings five buck speed
It pays more than teaching to read
Rats gnaw on your hair at night
Waking up to a junkie fight

Track Name: I Musta Lost It

I swear I’m not really a political hater
It’s just that Ran Paul is my fucking neighbor

This divorce of mine is draining all my funds
And I have to listen to ol Ran Paul say he’s stunned

Stunned that all these millennials expect handouts
It’s just something Ran Paul wouldn’t know shit about

Saying he’s self-reliant from doing yardwork at dawn
Shit half of these damn kids can’t even afford a damn lawn

Ran Paul may criticize that I pay for my lawn care
But he fucks up his lawn about as bad as his hair

And don’t think I don’t see him dump trimmings in my yard
Next time he’s outside he better be on fuckin guard

I’ll kick his ass off his fucking mower
Kick him in the ribs till he breathes like my smoker

I’ll sock his nose, pull his hair, knee his nuts
Break his teeth on the concrete, and burn out his eyes with a cigarette

Track Name: Neoliberal Game On Genesis

Selfies at Joe’s
Dreaming of the Burroughs

Brunch at Kerbey
Hitting up Rainey

Mimosas every hour
Pukin on the flowers

Back to the high-rise
And Favor™ for some fries

They’re slicing this town like a Home Slice [East Side] [Pinthouse] Pie
Folding them slices and that grease don’t lie
Runs down their arms and it drips to the floor
For us dogs to lick and beg for more

They pay the high rent
You’re on your last cent

They’re packing out the bars
You’re kicking parked cars

Out-of-state plates
All you feel is hate

Yuppies are the hippies
In the bloodsucker city

Track Name: Trickle Down My Ass

I swear I’m smoking meth
Cause I feel the foreman’s breath
Always yelling out “faster boys!
If you like to be employed!”
We’re doing more with less
It’s what the board calls progress
They’re dining on French cuisine
While we’re eating pork and beans

I swear I’m feeling lumps
But the board thinks I’m a chump
Took away my Medicare
Oh I thought you wouldn’t dare
Now the doc won’t see me
Even though it burns to pee
I’ll never see a raise
Or the foreman’s trickling praise

I swear I’m seeing shit
They say I’m throwing a fit
And the hours keep piling high
Cause they think I’ll never die
But my knees are starting to shake
Feel my grip on the railcar break
Feel like I’m travelin far
Headed straight down to the tar